


Shipping is "srs bssnss"

by this_kills_the_man



Series: *to the tune of rick astley* never gonna fiiiiniiiish theeeesssseeee [3]
Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Bad Fic, Gen, I'm Sorry, M/M, No Sex, Not Serious, Parody, This Is STUPID, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Why Did I Write This?, aka i love terrifying computer keyboards, fanon tropes, if there is a sex scene itll be so not a sex scene, making fun of everyone and everything, maybe just bill hawks punching himself in the face for two hours
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-12 03:16:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2093649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/this_kills_the_man/pseuds/this_kills_the_man
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the narrator of this story, it is my duty to inform you of the happenings as they were according to the author. Even if the narrator doesn't particularly agree with them. No, I'm serious. This is some gross literature right here. Why must I be the one to tell this tale...</p><p>(update: may or may not continue; for now, assume not)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'm going down with this ship

**Author's Note:**

> HAAAAAAAAAAAAAA I'M SO NOT SORRY FOR THIS BULLSHIT

The anomalies took root on the first day of June, sweltering in its London heat as sun rays bore heavy dread upon those poor, unfortunate English citizens. Today was the day; sweet in their savory pursuits, mishappenings released its clench on suspense as the author regrettably forgot that pacing existed, allowing fingertips to conduct through jittery pounding the conception of our main protagonist’s eventual demise. How, one may ask, has this henuous writer set forth the framework of puzzle solving expertise Layton-comma-Professor’s misfortune?

 Instead of explaining the previous paragraph’s fortuitous enchantment of literature, the author has decided to introduce any confused readers to dear senpai- whoops, how’d that get there? Please, author, refrain from such lingo, as it suggests such concepts as “shipping” and “slash” to be present in this story. Wait, what?

 No, you don’t mean..... You can’t..... At least use the correct terminology, technically speaking he’d be sensei, not senp-

 Please, I’m only a narrator, don’t eye that keyboard with such malice! Okay, okay, I’ll continue as you command, PLEASE REFRAIN FROM POURING THAT GLASS OF ABOMINABLE TEA ON ME!

 As I was saying, the gracious, most endearing author has decided to introduce any confused readers to dear.... er, _senpai_ , as he examined a dinosaur boner the way all archeologists presumably do. Yes, definitely. The author is resolute in the decision to have the Professor stare at this abhorrent reptilian dong. In any case, his study of the fossilized money stick was abruptly interrupted by the sudden entrance of Luke Triton, of which entailed his blasting through the door with insurmountable force and totally not hide something behind his back. The narrator personally believes that the author’s use of “senpai” (however suggestive it may be of the author’s lack of knowledge thereof on such topics) is indicative of their intentions in placing Luke in this story, but due to the fact that a leave-infused beverage is eerily close to this board of keys, the statement is to be considered irrelevant to the plot’s progression.

 As it were, the boy appeared uncharacteristically flustered as he approached the Professor’s desk, eyes darting to and fro in suspicion before faintly whispering, “I think there’s something you might need to see,” and flinging out a letter to present to the scholar. The author requests that readers do not question why he hid the letter in the first place were he to present it only moments later, as he was obviously paranoid and, most certainly, obviously paranoid people hide their belongings no matter what.

 Mr. Layton gave a nod to his apprentice before accepting the letter. “My, what could this possibly be?” he murmured.

 Luke, attempting and failing to feign any urge of blurting out the sender’s address, screamed “CLIVE” in horror before diving behind the nearby couch. The Professor could only sigh at the apprentice’s startling performance and, after thoroughly massaging his temples in advance to anticipate whatever trauma the message would unleash, broke the seal to reveal the packaged parchment.In orderly segments of jagged ink, expert in its precise placement of ink blots to screech “I AM WRITING THIS IN A HURRY” to any happenstantial reader, the clean, elegant English taunted:

 

_“Dear Professor,_

_If you receive this letter, I would like to inform you that I, Clive Dove, have escaped prison, and will enter your office at any moment to steal from you what you cherish most. Which isn’t Luke. Definitely not Luke. Totally just some figurine or your top hat. Yes. For sure._

_However, if you happen to solve the puzzle accompanying this letter before I arrive, my spidey-senses will alert me that you are not a total fucking moron and we can both forget this ever happened. Agreed?_

_Sincerely,_

_Clive Dove_

_P.S. You suck and I will go down with this ship.”_

 

    “...Indeed,” the Professor mumbled to himself, cuing a quiet thud to emanate from the floor to his left and catch the scholar’s attention. Luke, intrigued by the sudden noise, erupted from his hiding spot to snatch up the foreign object that had oh-so conveniently slid from inside the envelope at the precise moment Mr. Layton finished reading his letter, only to squeal and drop the object before once more rocketing behind the couch.

     “Now, Luke,” intoned the Professor, “a true gentleman never-”

   “SOLVE ME YOU SHIT,” boomed from the small wooden square previously manhandled by apprentice number one. 

    Mr. Layton glanced over at said excuse for polished tree bark, smelling with his very own nose a challenge of puzzle variety. A smile creeping onto his face, he waved Luke over with an empty hand as he stood to retrieve the potty-mouthed object. “As I was saying, my boy, a true gentleman leaves no puzzle unsolved.”

    Now, considering the fact that our most gracious author has not even the slightest clue as how to write about two plus two, much less an actual puzzle, the narrator has been instructed to recite the following as an “author’s note:” _Oh my god, guys, sorry, but I can’t describe what they’re doing! Laugh out loud, letter X and D. Please forgive “meh,” next time there will letter B more puzzles! Until then, triple dot... Let “dis” be some juicy suspense! Carrot underscore carrot._

    “Aha!” cried the Professor. “I believe I have solved this fifteen-puzzle.” With a mighty swipe of his index finger, the final tile slid into its place amongst the chronologically lesser values. Luke, who had been tentatively observing the scholar’s expert deductions with every thwick of wood against wood, released a vast sigh of relief, rocking back on his heels.

    “I guess that means Clive will leave us alone, right?” he asked of the scholar. To that, the Professor replied with only a simple shrug, as the intentions of their adversary had not been all that clear. Wait, really? Dear author, its a bit obvious as to how ship-crazy Mr Dove seems to- ALRIGHT NEVERMIND YOU CAN PUT THAT GLASS BACK DOWN NOW.

    “Maybe, maybe not.” With a solemn shake of his head, he returned to his desk, plopping down onto the seat with the refinement of the truest of gentlemen. “Only time will tell.”

    “Oh, Professor, there’s no need to wait.”

    The apprentice let out a fearful gasp, but the addressed didn’t even bat an eye at the new voice. It was as though Mr. Layton had been anticipating its arrival. “Clive,” he put simply.

    “ _Professor_ ,” the other sneered, clean articulation accentuating every syllable of the endearment. The convict reclined idly against the pearly grain of the doorframe entering the flat, said barricade flung heartily ajar from his recent intrusion. “I’m afraid you had not quite made haste to the extent that was required in order to... preserve your end of the bargain.”

    “Oh. Is that so?” The Professor tilted his head ever so slightly, the brim of his hat casting an ominous shadow over those beady eyes of his. Calculatory, but not quite so rigid as the stark ice encased within Clive’s own glower. “You’ve been here for a while now, haven’t

you?”

    A smirk quirked upward upon Mr. Dove’s features. “Always seeing through the facade, eh? I never expected any less from you.” Soon his pearly whites peeked out from inside an almost predator-eque grin, likeness only to the horror of man’s malicious pride. Taking a gander about the room, he immediately spotted a rather indignant looking Luke, doing his best to veil his trembling knees via defensively placing himself behind the Professor. Immediately, he fixated his full attention upon the apprentice.

    “I would say it’s time for us to get to business, shall we?”


	2. Eye of the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> looks like im still trash

    “...P-professor?” stammered a rather mortified looking apprentice, mouth agape as realization dawned on him as to what - or, to better phrase the term, who -Clive was implying be relinquished.

    The addressed remained unsettlingly stoic, silently confirming the boy’s dire suspicions of what was to really happen, and in this fit of terror Luke could only gawk with his mouth agape at the dubious Mr. Dove in confounding disbelief. Some feeling, perhaps a spark of pure resentment or, in more likelihood, a sickening sheer delight in observing the young apprentice’s vulnerability, triggered an explosion of villainous cackling to erupt from the convict, pleased as pie to see such horror splayed across a face so young. After all, bad guys laugh at their adversaries, right? He is evil, for sure. Obviously. Without a doubt. Prison does that to you.

    Instead of, y’know, gathering his wits about himself to form whatever semblance of resolve that a more canonical apprentice number one could have, no, should have, our appointed shota-in-distress simply stared at Clive as he sauntered over to him with that seriously creepy as fuck predator gaze like god damn what is wrong with that guy I hope he knows that kid is like twelve. Even the sensei-I mean senpai made no move, physical or otherwise, to resist the kidnapping of his friend, though his reasons for doing so were yet to be clear to the petrified Luke. Yawn, stretch, sigh. What happens next could be predicted by a five year old child.

    Speaking of said section, I believe the author has left the vicinity for a moment, so perhaps I could tweak the following so it contains a bit more element of suspense...

 

        It then dawned on the apprentice that, not only did his legs function, but that his assailant’s stride left a gap in his defense - to be more specific, his groin - and that said legs could easily ram into that sensitive spot before running like hell, Professor in tow. Two eyes, once glazed over, came alight with a vigor previously absent from the harrowing daze he was so intimately acquainted with. Shooting forth a mighty cry of “eureka!” and a well-placed boot to Clive’s tender region, the convict was left keeling forward in agony as a frenzied apprentice bulleted over to Mr. Layton, the boy’s arms flailing to further emphasise his exclamations of “c’mon hurry up professah we got’a go c’moooonn” in ways his jaw alone could not.

        To his utter astonishment, the Professor raised a hand as if signaling he stop, shaking his head as though an oversight had been made on his part. Had he?

        “Luke, my boy, I believe there is something you have forgotten.”

        The spire of english raked its terse nails against every pore of the boy’s skin. Ah. It appears he had.

        The gentleman continued his smooth, almost honey-like quality of even articulation, gaze steady on their unwelcome guest. "If I am correct in deducing this, your puzzle was designed for a purpose beyond solving, was it not, Mr. Dove?"

        An impatient, albeit strained, hmph was his only reply from the squirming lump on the floor.

        "As I thought," said the Professor with a nod. "That explains Luke's sharp revolt against laying hands on that slab of wood you sent us. Excuse me in being so forward, but where exactly did you acquire such potent sedatives? That are released through physical touch, no less."

        "Huh? What're you sayin’, Professah?" slurred an already droopy-eyed apprentice, speech disconcerting in the way it warbled so cumbersomely. Despite the sudden drowsy spell, Luke's mind was ablaze with fright as he registered just how quickly it had taken Clive to rise from his previous fetal position on the floor. Without so much as a hair out of place!

        “You’ve gotten the facts right so far, Layton,” spat the aggravated Clive as his shot daggers at his young assailant. “Why don’t you continue? There’s a fair chance you already know my answers.”

        At that, the Professor only sighed. “I’d best not jump to conclusions, considering the little information I could gather from your letter.”

   

    Ah, dear author, you have returned! Do not fret; I have continued the prose in your stead. Ahem, you may, er, resume your previous train of thought.

     At once, the convict reestablished his facade of smug mystery through a simple flip of his uneven hair, swift in movement and carefully rotund in the arc of his neck; it was as though he were to convey some sort of deeper meaning to the action, even if it in itself was a mere shallow nod to his control over the adversaries in front of him. A broad grin swelled from the nothingness of a grimace long past its expiration date.

    “What a shame,” he remarked slyly, “that the famous Professor Layton is so unwilling to share his perspective on the matter.” The convict took his turn to shake a head in disapproval. “Suit yourself. I can only assume you are aware of your own predicament, which should befall you right about....”

    Before Clive could finish his statement, the Professor flopped violently onto the desk, out cold from extended exposure to the drug; the fifteen-puzzle was still a mere half-a-foot from him. Luke nearly jumped through the roof from the startling development, but the convict dare not move the breadth of a single fingernail, as though this was something to be entirely expected. Hesitantly, the apprentice inched toward sensei-I-mean-senpai-I-mean-I-don’t even-care-anymore, right hand slinking towards the heaving shoulders splayed across stacks of ungraded assignments. Tap, tap. No response.

    The grin arose into stature of a properly tooth-encased smile. “...Now.”

    Aghast, the apprentice began violently trembling, efforts to sustain consciousness slowly revealing to be fruitless with every shuddering inhale. Stay awake. Escape. These were the only thoughts that surfaced in that frail mind of his, even as the rapidly fading image of a victorious Clive approaching him became a reality too terrifying to bear.

    “Sleep,” commanded the convict, now only an arm’s length away from the sputtering engine that was Luke Triton. Like cause-and effect, the young boy collapsed into his outstretched arms with an ease uncannily similar to that of a gliding dove, spastic twitching soothed by a single spurt of calm english. A hush blanketed the study, illuminated only by rays of maroon sunset and the occasional dust particle; the room itself had quite literally fallen asleep, with Clive the lone soul untouched by its spell of rest.

    For countless seconds, he reveled in that sanctuary of serenity, just drinking in the stillness of time’s river. It was rare to find such contained energy in a state so elastic, a tangible mass that could be moulded into tiles of lethargy to savor at one’s own pace. Indeed, that ocean of maroon light bathed his surroundings in rosy pallets that would pour over every muscle, every ounce of soul, and resonate within him. It was... a breath of fresh air.

    Alas, lingering for any longer than necessary was dangerous, and as much as Clive found solace in the picture-perfect circumstance of calm that had so easily situated itself in the present, the peace was only the eye of a dreadful, terrifying storm that threatened to shatter this dream-like moment of relaxation were he not to kick his rear in gear and get the hell outta there. So, it was; the convict shifted the weight of the slumbering boy to his left, swinging the adjacent arm under the crook of his knees to raise him upward bridal-style. Once he freed the movement of his own two feet from the kickstand of preteen apprentice variety, the young man was able to soundlessly tiptoe towards the exit of the Professor’s study and, to his convenience, had no need to twist the knob in order to pass through the wooden arch that was the front door.

    A gentle thud and a minute click was all that signaled the convict’s disappearance from the scene, any and all surfaces otherwise untouched by the madness of Clive Dove.


End file.
